Sound Track
by anenemies
Summary: Music is the poetry of the air; Dum da da dum da da dum da da dum da da dum da da dum da da dum da! Parker, an iPod, 1001/12 songs and a crash course in musicality.


Parker loves money. A lot. To the exclusion of other things, in fact.

This means, while Parker has a lot of money, she doesn't have a lot of things.

When Hardison discovers she does not have an iPod, or a CD player, or a radio, or a walkman, or even a gramophone, he works his jaw up and down, forming then aborting at least three sentences.

When she comes into the office the next day there is shiny new iPod prepped in a shiny new dock on her desk. It comes loaded with a thousand and one songs (because it's more _poetic_ that way Parker) and a playlists.

One is called Work and contains a variety of music that Hardison says would be kick-ass to play during a job. Parker looks at him funny and explains that she can't listen to music when she's in an air vent, they tend to echo. Hardison looks at her funnier and says that it's about a _soundtrack_, not literally but in her head. Parker twists up her face into the most confused expression she can manage but she knows she needs to work on her silent communication still because Hardison just backs up slowly.

Still she listens to the playlist a few times.

More than a few times. She carries the iPod around with her now in the office plugged into her ears. At first it bothers her how it muffles the sound of approaching footsteps and other warning noises she was attuned to but she figures she's safe (it was nice at the office with SophieNateEliotAlec). She still doesn't quite understand what Hardison was talking about.

Then one day, they were lounging at the office, between jobs with nothing really to do between them. Eliot was teaching Sophie how not to burn a pot of water in the kitchen, Hardison was absorbed in his computer screen in his office and Nate was seated comfortably in his office chair. High backed and formed of rich burgundy leather, he was slouched into the deep cushions cradling a cup of Irish whiskey and ice to his chest.

Parker had been roaming the hallways, peering into this room and that, with her iPod turned on shuffle. Her eye was caught by Nate's contemplative form just as the momentary silence between songs was broken by the opening strains of a soft tune.

_Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?  
You've been out chasing fences for so long now_

Parker stops with a soft skid of her sneakers on the wooden flooring staring at Nate's profile as he lifts his cup to his mouth and sips before peering dolefully at his walls again. And now Parker thinks she gets it.

Then she's on a hunt. A job.

Sophie is soft and mellow and has the same sort of twang as Nate. Its tune clings to the inside of her head for days, but it's sweet.

_She's skilled at the art of deception and she knows it  
She's got dirty money that she plays with all the time._

Sometimes, but other times it was a faster rhythm and a clangy guitar and a dissonant voice. Other times when she would touch one of them in some casual small way, or when she stole Nate's glass of whiskey from him before he finished it almost every time, or when their eyes would meet for a moment and Parker felt _warm_ – warm like home.

_I was in another lifetime one of toil and blood  
When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud  
I came in from the wilderness a creature void of form  
"Come in" she said  
"I'll give you shelter from the storm".  
_

Hardison is _pingy_. It sounds like the piano the Loomers had in their front room. When they were both out of the house she would sometimes experiment tapping the keys one at a time to hear what sounds came out.

_Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag  
And smile, smile, smile_

Sometimes, but other times when he's silent, not quiet, like he gets when he has to _hush_ because Nate says so or Eliot says so or Sophie bloody well says so. On Sundays mostly, and he'll look at this photo he keeps, crinkled and worn and the only non-digital one she thinks he owns, in his wallet. Parker knows it's of an older woman from when she picked Alec's pocket during their first job. Short but slim, her pale hair and skin glowing, old but not too old with her arms wrapped around five children, all skinny in that way Parker _knows_ but smiling in a way she doesn't.

_Looking down through a tide of no return  
Is a field where the cops no longer grow  
Parched is the land, strangled and bedamned  
There for the Grace of God go I._

Eliot is deep and husky, a rasp that echoes in rhythm, the music stripped down to its bones. When he's lounging on the couch, deceptively loose limbed, relaxed and present and not lonely, not anymore.

_Hobo songs and railroad gin,  
Alcohol evaporates through skin,  
One gift, sugar blue_

Sometimes, but other times when he's all movement and Parker can't really track his face he goes so fast, when he's a blur of hair and fierce eyes. Or when he moves about the kitchen with a steady sort of grace, the same power contained and focused.

_Là, fra la neve bianca;  
Là, fra le nubi d'ôr;  
Laddóve la speranza, la speranza  
È rimpianto, è rimpianto, è dolor!_

Then there are the songs she plays _for_ them. Not aloud, but in her head, another kind of soundtrack. Something like a wish, one for each of them, because they've all been really good this year. _Really _good. So she plays these songs for them like St. Nicholas (Santa) a prayer and a gift for each.

For Nate she brings hope.

_The monsters gone,  
He's on the run  
And your daddy's here._

For Sophie she brings love.

_You know I believe and how.  
You're asking me will my love grow?  
I don't know, I don't know_

For Alec she brings truth.

_I saw her today at the reception,  
A glass of wine in her hand,  
I knew she would meet her connection_

For Eliot she brings a respite.

_May no man's reigns ever chain you  
And may no man's weight ever defrayed your soul  
And as for the clouds, just let them roll, roll away_

She tries to explain to Alec that she understands now about the soundtrack, but she's not really good with words. She thinks she understands when she makes him sit by her at the bar sharing her head phones while her finger lays poised over the play button until Eliot walks in, the draft from the door blowing his hair backwards artfully.

_Dum da da dum da da dum da da dum da da dum da da dum da da dum da!_

Hardison spits beer up on the bar but she thinks he gets it now.

She loves her new iPod(family).

Songs in chronological order:

Desperado - The Eagles  
Ah Mary - Grace Potter and the Nocturnals  
Shelter from the Storm - Bob Dylan  
Pack Up Your Troubles - Minnutes  
Grace of God - Flogging Molly  
Sugar Blue - Jeff Finlin  
La Wally: "Ebben? Ne Andro Lontana" - Maria Callas  
Beautiful Boy - John Lennon  
Something - The Beatles  
You Can't Always Get What You Want - The Rolling Stones  
All The Wild Horses - Ray Lamontagne  
Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy - Big & Rich


End file.
